Fall
by JasNutter
Summary: In the awning of red and gold, John gives his friend all the comfort that he can.


In the span of one turbulent human lifetime there will always have been events that, like collisions of colossal proportions do, send the entire momentum of a being veering off in a startling path of change and self discovery, marking pivotal boundaries of befores and afters. Before Dad left and after. Before Harry's drinking and after. Before the war and after.

John knows this.

John also knows no one emerges from the impact quite the same and in light of what he knows, the absence of condescend and scorn doesn't particularly surprise him, however disconcerting the unfamiliar softened angles may be. The paranoid stiffness replacing the self assured gait of three years past is nothing short of what he expected. The calloused hands of the scientist are now the calloused hands of a warrior. They are tucked, currently, into pockets of the legendary Belstaff as the man strides before him.

John follows, dry leaves crunching under his treading feet.

For them, there is before the fall and after.

Months have progressed into the after, and to anyone besides Sherlock the relative hastiness with which the shock and the cold wariness has morphed to fumbling reconciliation would be a sign of having been understood and forgiven. If the friendship remains strained, and remains strained it does, it's only because Sherlock wonders continually how far it will still extend to. Will there be tea on cold afternoons? Will there be company to lonely cases?

John has proved continually that _yes_, there will be. Sherlock will wonder still. John knows this.

And John, who would follow Sherlock to the ends of the planet if only to merely reassure, finds that following him here is hardly a chore. Even without the overwhelming beauty of autumn in the country.

But it certainly makes him happier for it.

Years have sped by since the last afternoon spent in the beautiful October sunshine of the country, and the whisper of leaves against the pinch of frosty breeze takes John back to his Nana's cottage in a happy bubble of nostalgia, with the warm smell of baked bread and pumpkin and apple trees and woolwash. Sunlight peeks in through gaps in the foliage of yellows and red, bouncing off the falling leaves and grazing flaming tree tops in a breathtaking glow and John doesn't register having stopped to take it in.

Sherlock is waiting by the kissing gate at the end of the pebbled path, hands still buried deep in pockets and collar turned up. John watches him as he walks, fond smile rising at the leaf caught in the wind-ruffled curls. His gaze is serene, eyes distant and unfocused. He looks up as John crunches towards him.

"You like this", he observes softly, in the way that he observes ordinary things as though strange sometimes. "Sentiment?"

John shrugs. "Sentiment." Pause. "It's also quite beautiful."

They watch leaves sway to the ground, forming a fiery carpet.

"Why?" he asks suddenly.

"Why what?"

A stronger gust of wind meets another pause as it blows through the trees and straight past them, carrying the leaf in Sherlock's hair away with it. Sherlock shivers. John watches it dance away.

"They're dying", Sherlock breaks into soft speech abruptly. "All these falling leaves, they're dying. Why is it beautiful?"

John will never stop wondering why Sherlock turns to him, time and again, for answers.

Four decades of life, though, is enough for John to know the hurt and the ugly in even just the ordinary. John knows the pain and tears of being the son and the brother, the friend and the lover, the soldier and the healer.

John also knows, however, the balance of joy and love of all that he is just on the other side of the same coin.

"Why is it beautiful?"

He wonders if Sherlock knows what he does.

"If they don't fall", he answers, watching the leaves do just that, "these trees would be seriously damaged when winter arrives. Could die, even, from loss of water."

Sherlock grunts, shuffles, and, as what seems to be a habit now, moves his comfort seeking self closer to the doctor. John, like the numerous times when Sherlock has leaned into his space, is gripped by the need to provide what comfort he can.

"They'll be back when they can be", he tells Sherlock.

There is nothing but the sound of the rustling leaves and the flapping of wings as Sherlock eyes bore into his own, uncertain and sweetly vulnerable. John sees his throat bob with words.

"They won't be the same ones." He manages to get out.

"No, of course not."

"Then –"

"They'll be essentially the same." John reassures.

His friend continues to gaze at him and John allows him to, because there are times when John feels, after three years of deprivation, that he could just _look_ at Sherlock for an eternity and it wouldn't be enough. He waits through the soft inspection. They both wait for composures to be regained.

Throats are cleared.

And then Sherlock, with the abrupt energy of a consulting detective in his element, whirls about in a dramatic swish of coat, bringing the other golden leaf clinging comically to the curls at the back of his head into John's mirthful vision.

"Well come along, then. The case won't solve itself." He moves briskly past the gates.

John smiles and follows. Essentially the same indeed.

* * *

_For Mommalock Erica, who I just** adore**. _


End file.
